


worldly sounds of endless warring were, for just a moment, silent stars

by fits_in_frames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-20
Updated: 2007-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean sits and stares at Sam for a long time after he passes out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	worldly sounds of endless warring were, for just a moment, silent stars

**Author's Note:**

> _worldly sounds of endless warring_  
>  _were, for just a moment, silent stars_  
>  _worldly boundaries of dying_  
>  _were, for just a moment, never ours_  
>  {rufus wainwright // in a graveyard}  
> 
> 
> Missing scene from "Playthings".

Dean sits and stares at Sam for a long time after he passes out. He can still feel the imprints of his brother's thumbs on his cheekbones, still smell the reek of tequila on his breath. He's only seen Sam this drunk once before, and that was when they were kids and Sammy found a bottle of Jack Daniels next to Dad's cot. _But I was thirsty_ , he remembers Sam saying as he lifted him into his own bed. He sat with his little brother for hours, pinching him, yelling at him, telling him stories, doing whatever it took to keep him awake until Dad got home. Dad was, of course, furious at both of them (mostly at Dean), but as soon as Sam was done puking and passed out in the backseat of the car on their way out of town, things were back to normal.

Sam's breathing is shallow and irregular, his chest rising and falling (or, rather, pushing up and letting down) whenever it damn well pleases. He's making noises in his sleep, the little whimpering moans of lost puppies and drunk people. His arms and the little bits of his belly and face that Dean can see are flushed. Dean stands up, hands pushing on his knees, and paces around the room. There are a litter of tiny bottles (one of which is labeled, "Romana Sambvca") and about a half-dozen bottles of tequila, all in varying states of emptiness on the bureau. He's happy to see that all the guns and knives are safely packed away in their bags on the opposite wall. He hears Sam moan in his sleep and snaps around. Sam pushes his face further into the pillow, rotates so that he's on his side, facing away from Dean, and pulls his knees up to his chest. Dean continues his journey around the perimeter of the room, telling himself he's checking for anything unusual, but keeps snatching glances at Sam, who is suddenly shivering.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud," he says under his breath, walking over to Sam's bed in three quick strides. He tugs the sheets from under his legs and pulls them up over him. And then he sits, so that all that is separating his ass from Sam's is their jeans and a thin cotton sheet. He folds his hands in his lap, and Sam starts to snore. He laughs to himself, watches his hands twitch and shake. It's times like these that he wishes he smoked cigarettes. He glances over his shoulder, over Sam's body: Sam is out cold. His face is scrunched up in pain and his mouth is wide open. He's drooling on to the pillow. He snores again.

Dean turns, puts one leg up on the bed, folded in. He touches Sam's side, gingerly, nervously. He hardly ever gets to touch anyone like this, and he forgets sometimes how much he enjoys warm flesh that isn't his own under his fingertips, especially when it's Sam's. (Something in the pit of his stomach hitches every time he talks to Sam long distance on the phone, something that wants to feel the rough fabric of Sam's denim jacket brush against his knuckles just to make sure he isn't lying. He hasn't felt it in weeks, but he'll never forget.) He knows Sam won't know if he's out, won't care if he's awake, so he drags his whole hand up the side of Sam's belly, across Sam's ribcage, and back down to his hip. Sam wriggles contentedly in his sleep, buries his head further into the pillow, closes his mouth. Dean smiles and rubs Sam's side again lightly, in an elliptical motion this time.

"Hey Sam," he says, leaning close in, "you awake?" Sam doesn't respond, only crinkles his nose in his sleep. "I'll take that as a no." He swallows, then sputters to the air and the old ceiling beams: "I don't-- I--I can't--" He looks down at his younger brother, pushes a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, tucks it behind his ear. He wants to take it back, the promise he made, and he tries to reason with himself that Sam won't remember anything that happened tonight, not after that much tequila, but something in the back of his throat reminds him that he's dealing with Sam _fucking_ Winchester and all he can do is whisper, "Goddammit, Sammy." He stands up, brushes his hands together, leans over Sammy to check his breathing, which is now deep and regular. He straightens up and runs his hand lightly over Sam's tangled hair once before turning on his heel and heading downstairs.


End file.
